


late blooming

by YukinaMika



Series: 2020 [18]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe, Butterfly Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Damian Wayne is the Demon's Head, F/M, Not yet anyway but in the future, half of the assassination attempts are not shown, not really revelant for the plot but it's there so i'm tagging this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YukinaMika/pseuds/YukinaMika
Summary: Damian is the heir to the League of Shadows and his betrothed is the daughter of an assassin and a baker.
Relationships: Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug/Damian Wayne
Series: 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593016
Comments: 24
Kudos: 363





	late blooming

The little girl seems to belong anywhere but here.

She is the beloved daughter of a baker and an assassin. She is the sweet child that walks among the bumbling heathens that know nothing of true hardship. She, unfortunately, is his betrothed.

* * *

Marinette Dupain-Cheng is a name no one has ever heard before: a blank slate that speaks of nothing and everything. It is, according to his mother, the name of his betrothed.

“There is nothing about her,” he hisses, stalking the perimeters of his room. Agitation is visible in every line of his body, displeasure pouring out in every step.

There have been hundreds of reports, sent in by the scouts tasked with digging up whatever they could about this girl who somehow wounded up in a betrothal with the heir of the League of Shadows. All of them have little to none details about this so-called Dupain-Cheng.

His mother regards him with cold eyes, head tilting to the side. Fingers twisting a lock of hair, her smile is a thing of danger.

“Beloved,” she purrs, amusement coloring her tone, coiling and coiling like the most asphyxiating vice. “Get to know her and form your own opinions about her.”

“Just like you did with my father?” he huffs, wrinkling his nose at the idea of going in without a shred of information.

The reply comes in the form of bared teeth and lidded eyes: a love story born in the shadows and in there, it shall remain, soaked in the warmth of blood and reflected in the blade of his mother’s favorite dagger.

* * *

It is frustrating to be engaged to someone he knows nothing about. There is nothing but aggravation when he realizes that no, he cannot just off his so-called betrothed without any consequences.

“Do play nice,” his mother warns. “While Sabine and I are good acquaintances and Tom is a generous man, I cannot promise that no harm would come to you should a hair on their daughter’s head is harmed.”

Apparently, Sabine Cheng comes from a long line of mercenaries and her words alone can topple any medium to small business. And Tom Dupain is a somewhat influential baker in Paris, known for his delicious pastries and love for his wife and daughter.

“Imagine a war on two fronts,” says his mother. “Fending against those from Sabine’s side of the family, wishing to avenge their beloved family member and calming down the mob that Tom rallies to see justice for their daughter.”

So no, he cannot just off her like he would anyone else.

Well, there are always servants who are willing to do his bidding and make sure whatever they do would not be traced back to him. If all fails, there are always more refined ways to make someone disappear.

This is the League of Assassins. How hard can it be to off someone here?

* * *

Apparently, it is hard to off someone in the heart of the League of Assassins. Specifically, it is hard to make one Marinette Dupain-Cheng disappear.

“Young Master, Madame Cheng and her daughter have arrived,” one of his mother’s men announces from outside. “The Mistress requires your presence.”

He does not swear because why should he utter such crass words. It, however, takes much restraint to not do so.

“Tell my mother that I will be there shortly,” he replies and tosses a small package to one of his own waiting for directions in the corner of the study, “Go make some tea for our guests.”

* * *

The girl is soft-hearted like the disillusioned fools thinking they could change the world with their insignificant presence and form the world to their black and white ideals.

She smiles at the servants and thanks them. She flinches at loud noises and wrinkles her nose at the smell of freshly spilled blood.

What is more aggravating is that she is still standing there and not in the infirmary being looked over by one of the healers.

“It is nice to finally meet you,” she inclines her head, her words flowing like honey down sore throats, soothing and refreshing all the same. “You are my betrothed, I presume?”

There is something in that smile that infuriates him. It seems innocent enough, kind in its own way but the way those gray eyes sparkle? It is almost as if she is laughing at him.

He never backs down from a challenge.

“I believe,” he lets the chuckle color his tone with amusement. “The one asking that question should be me.”

Rising on steady legs, he looms over her. Those steely eyes stare back, never relinquish an inch, steady like his mother’s hand when she guided him through his very first kill.

“Oh,” her lips part in mocked surprise, lashes fluttering delicately like a fragile doll. “Whatever do you mean?”

“But of course,” he laughs, channeling his father’s public persona into his words. “My apologize, miss, but I was expecting something… different.”

A split second and those eyes absolutely ablaze like pools of mercury reflecting the light of the sun. And just as quick as it arrives, the fury in those eyes smooths over, fading as if it has never been there.

“I understand,” she laughs and there is something in that tone, is it not? “After all, the different in class quite a shock to the system, is it?”

A bolt of thunder strikes and fire lights up along his spines, spreading and spreading until he is hot all over. His blood thrums under his skin, singing the familiar demand for spilled blood, burning and coiling like fire in his guts.

“You! The tea-” his vision sways, words slur and faintly, he can hear the sharp intake of breath from his mother when his knees buckle and he hits the ground with shaky breaths, thinking back about the tea she handed him while they were dining earlier. “Poisoned-“

She grins, teeth bared like a predator in front of a downed prey. Standing tall, she stares down at him, gray eyes glittering like pools of mercury.

“All is fair in love and war,” she sings, “Why, did you not expecting that, love?”

Perhaps, he shall enjoy this.

* * *

His betrothed handles the blade delicately like she has no idea how to do so. An incredible feat, really, when her dame is one of the best of the best when it comes to a sweet voice and a steady blade.

"Every time we meet," he starts, twirling his down blade, waiting to a strike that is sure to come. "It seems like you just get worse and worse."

Those eyes snap to his face, holding his own green ones in challenge. They ablaze with the rare fury, lighting up like mercury in the sun: exquisite and deadly all the same.

"I would not be so cocky if I were you," she hisses a warning, teeth bared like a wild animal. And is that not the best sight?

He does not deign an answer. Instead, he tilts his head to the side and lets the barest hint of a smirk graces his face.

The red that bleeds into her face is refreshing. Gone are the sweet smiles and the lilting words, fury hisses through her teeth and fire dancing in her eyes.

“Beloved,” he purrs, watching as those eyes are absolutely ablaze – a nice change from all the demureness that seems so ill-fitted on her. “Your hands are not meant for a blade, it seems.”

Like a switch, she closes her eyes, breaths and the fire, suddenly, is gone like it has never been there. Those eyes, when they open, are glacial, piercing like the sharpest icicles.

“Little prince,” she croons, like the honey on the tongue, soothing and sweet. “You say the sweetest things.”

It is insulting, really when she speaks in that saccharine tone. He knows that she knows that he has never been fooled by that sweet façade that she carefully carves for herself.

But if she wants to play like that… Well, he can certainly entertain her.

“Whatever do you mean?” he tilts his head, eyes settling on that uplift at the corner of her lips like it holds all the answers in the world. “If my memory serves me right, you did compare me to a fish in a small pond, did you not? Perhaps you should be more forthcoming, beloved.”

“It is as you said,” she grins and gods, he can vaguely imagine freshly spilled blood staining those lips. “My hands are not meant to wield blades. However, there are more weapons than just swords and knives.”

Her blade never comes. Instead, his vision swims, that beautiful victorious grin is blurry to his eyes and what he would not give to see that in all of its glory.

“Little prince,” she coos and his blade hits the ground with a clang. “Sleep well.”

* * *

There are rumors of a formless voice: mellifluent words and dulcet murmurs. It arrives on the wings of tiny but resilient butterflies, fluttering and fluttering, gliding and gliding through the city of lights.

“You are far away from home, little prince,” it chuckles into his ear, the swallowtail squirming between his fingers. “Did you lose your way?”

The night is cool against his bare skin. The wind is violent up on the very top of the tower but that does nothing to tamper with the amusement curling in his gut.

A mystery worthy for the heir to the greatest detective to ever walked the lands. Or it would be had he not been so familiar with the brilliant mind of his beloved.

“I wonder,” he muses, studying the fragile wings. “Are you always this kind to those who are lost?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the voice laughs, tingling like little bells of the wind chime before a gentle breeze.

He grins, anticipation coiling and twisting and something hot bubbles underneath his skin, addictive and dangerous.

"We shall meet again," he murmurs and lets go of the swallowtail, watching it fluttering toward the familiar direction of that small bakery. "Beloved."

The promise tastes absolutely divine on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to wait until after my finals but that's like 3 weeks so...


End file.
